I handed the card to Kendricks. “Do you happen to remember the name of the young French nobleman who danced the third dance with Miss Gage?”
“No,” he said; “but I think I could invent it.” And he dashed down an extremely probable marquis, while Miss Gage clapped her hands for joy.
“Oh, how glorious! how splendid!”
I asked, “Will you ever give me away the longest day you live?”
“Never,” she promised; and I added the name of a South American doctor, one of those doctors who seem to be always becoming the presidents of their republics, and ordering all their patients of opposite politics to be shot in the plaza.
Kendricks entered a younger son of an English duke, and I contributed the hyphenated surname of a New York swell, and between us we soon had all the dances on Miss Gage’s card taken by the most distinguished people. We really studied probability in the forgery, and we were proud of the air of reality it wore in the carefully differenced handwritings, with national traits nicely accented in each.
XVI
The fun of it all was that Mrs. March was not deceived for an instant. “Oh, nonsense!” she said, when she glanced at our pretty deception, which we presented with perhaps too perfect seriousness. “Then you danced only the first dance?”
“No, no!” Miss Gage protested. “I danced every dance as long as I stayed.” She laughed with her handkerchief to her mouth and her eyes shining above.
“Yes; I can testify to that, Mrs. March,” said Kendricks, and he laughed wildly, too. I must say their laughter throughout was far beyond the mirthfulness of the facts. They both protested that they had had the best time in the world, and the gayest time; that I had been a mirror of chaperons, and followed them round with my eyes wherever they went like a family portrait; and that they were the most exemplary young couple at the hop in their behaviour. Mrs. March asked them all about it, and she joined in their fun with a hilarity which I knew from long experience boded me no good.